Title: Mirage.

Mirage. The monotonous clatter of wheels induced drowsiness. Even the terrible stench of the "parasha" (slop bucket) near his nook and the horrible spasms of his empty stomach could not overcome the constant weakness and fatigue that had accompanied him since his imprisonment. Everything! Everything! "Rootless cosmopolitan"! "Murderer in a white coat"! "American spy"! Lord, well, who else, but - Agent of "Joint"! What "Joint"? Nonsense! Nonsense!
Natan Lvovich didn't want to remember this period, but his memory treacherously returned him to the past. They celebrated the New Year of 1952 merrily, as always in the family circle. They laughed a lot, joked, sang favorite songs to the accordion, which his son Shurka played quite well. His daughter Faina, already a married lady, the day before had secretly whispered to her parents that soon they might become a grandmother and grandfather, so she drank only mineral water. Everyone rejoiced in life and made grandiose plans for the future. Natan Lvovich was finishing his monograph and intended to submit it for publication in the near future. No joke, 8 years of hard work. Sofa, his wife, roasted an incredibly delicious goose with apples. Lord, how good and calm it was. In February, Vitalik came to visit. In '43, still a boy, right after medical school, he got to the front in a military hospital, where Captain of the Medical Service Kogan served. Until the end of the war, they were inseparable. Natan Lvovich treated him like a son, protected and cared for him, taught him the profession. After demobilization, Vitalik graduated from the medical institute and became a military surgeon. And here was the visit of Major of the Medical Service Vitaly Serbushko to his teacher! So many memories and gratitude from a devoted student. Vitalik timed his visit to the Birthday of his fellow soldier and comrade-in-arms. Natan Lvovich's name day, a man as old as the century, was celebrated in the circle of the closest people. And yet a large number of guests gathered. And the flowers from his students, and telegrams from grateful patients... It was pleasant and solemnly cheerful. Then came spring, his favorite time of year, and suddenly — this nightmarish, humiliating arrest right during a lecture at the institute, this terrifying silence in the crowded auditorium, the frightened and uncomprehending eyes of his students. What was the topic of the lecture? Something with the gallbladder! Yes, yes, I think, "Postcholecystectomy syndrome". Exactly!

"…" the professor smiled sadly, "I was lecturing them about the syndrome." A kick to his leg brought him back to reality.

"Get out of here, Yid face," a criminal hissed, settling on the "parasha", and swung a fist, "I'm not sitting down to shit next to you. You'll mess something up, enemy of the people! You just want to destroy the Russian man! Get out before I cut you. You'll clean it all up later, got it?" Natan Lvovich stood up silently and went deep into the railcar. The train indifferently continued its way, taking the condemned "human cattle" to places of punishment.

"Kogan, where is Kogan?"

— the lieutenant's voice was well-fed and ringing, "to me."

"Convict Kogan, Article 58-8," approaching the escort, Natan Lvovich muttered by rote. Having passed through two identical freight cars packed with convicts, so-called "wagon zak" (prisoner carriages), they got into the compartment car of the escort administration and stopped near a door with a sign: Chief of the Train. Major Gryaznov S.I. Knocking, the lieutenant opened the door slightly, nodded his head and let the prisoner into the compartment. Seeing the man sitting at the table, the professor's head spun and his heart squeezed unpleasantly.

"Well, that's it," he thought tiredly, recognizing his investigator, "it's probably for the best. I won't survive the transport anyway."

"Convict Kogan, Article 58-8," he muttered, "has arrived."

"Sit down, Kogan," the major nodded at the bench opposite, "sit." Natan Lvovich lost his breath and involuntarily blurted out: "Is something wrong with my family?"

"Just sit down," the major pointed a finger, "I don't know anything about your family. I called you on another matter," and lighting a cigarette, he suddenly asked, "how is the transport? No one offending you? You are being transported with the thugs? Are they not running wild?"

"What do you need from me?"

— Kogan asked quietly, "it's pointless to beat me, I won't say anything new."

"Don't be afraid," the Chekist grimaced painfully, "I'm not going to beat you. You got your sentence, why would I pummel you now? You better tell me, what did you do before your conviction? A professor-surgeon, right? I studied your file well."

"By profession I was a surgeon," Natan Lvovich nodded, "and a professor is a position, I headed the department of hospital surgery at the medical institute."

"Fine," the major waved his hand, "it doesn't matter what you headed there. The thing is this. My stomach hurts. It's been hurting for the second day, and today it's worse. If you cure me, I'll transfer you to another car, allocate a bunk, and you'll ride separately from the thugs. Otherwise, you won't make it to the camp, the zeks will beat you to death. So, try your best. Come on, look," and he began unbuttoning his tunic.

"What do you mean, look? What stomach?"

— Kogan shrugged, "I cannot, I have no right. I was stripped of all my titles! I am now a 'Murderer in a white coat', a 'Rootless cosmopolitan'. I am a ZEK!"

"What? Who are you contradicting? Me! I will..."

— the major jumped up, but clutching his stomach, groaned and sat back down on the berth.

"It hurts, the scum," he grimaced, "hurts badly. Look, come on, don't make me angry!"

"I regret to inform you, citizen chief," Kogan moved away from the patient, "but you have acute appendicitis. I have no doubts."

"What's that?"

— the major wheezed, "what appendicitis? I didn't eat anything like that. Where could this infection come from? And what now?"

"Surgery is needed, and the sooner the better," Natan Lvovich stood up from the chair, "peritonitis could develop, and then it will be too late. Well, inflammation of the peritoneum," he added, seeing the questioning look of the patient, "it's a serious complication that could threaten your life."

"Are you, bitch, trying to say I'm gonna croak?"

— the major grimaced, "or maybe these are your Yid tricks? You know how to destroy our command staff, huh, Kogan? Think I believe you?"

— struggling to stand up from the berth and sliding the door open, he shouted: "Zaborodko!" A young lieutenant came out of the neighboring compartment.

"Take convict Kogan to the next compartment," the major ordered gloomily, tucking his shirt into his pants, "then come see me." Outside the window, winter raged, the Siberian winter. Huge snowdrifts, limiting visibility, slowly floated past the train. Forest, endless forest. The frost was felt even visually in the petrified branches of the trees.

"I won't survive imprisonment," Natan Lvovich thought tiredly and somehow indifferently, "it is impossible to survive this. And what for? To prolong my torments and condemn my family to suffering?" It was warm in the carriage and he imperceptibly dozed off.

"Kogan, get up," the lieutenant shoved him roughly in the shoulder, "move, move," and pushed him in the back.
In the train chief's compartment, Natan Lvovich saw a hunched elderly man in glasses standing opposite the major lying on the berth.

"Semyon Abramovich," Kogan cried out involuntarily, "how are you here?"

"Well, I see there's no need to introduce you to each other," Gryaznov struggled to sit up, "I see you're acquainted."

"We sat together in isolation," the old man mumbled with a toothless mouth, looking at Natan Lvovich, "that's where we met."

"Alright, enough reminiscing," the major waved his hand, "come on Feldman, speak."

"Although I am not a surgeon, but a former gynecologist," Semyon Abramovich said unexpectedly firmly, "but I believe that the patient has all the signs of acute appendicitis and urgent surgery is needed. Although, the esteemed professor-surgeon is present here," and he looked at Kogan, "he will state his more professional opinion."

"Stop with your stupid habits," the major grimaced, " 'Es-teem-ed' ," he mocked.

"Maybe there," waving his hand towards the window, "you were 'esteemed', but here — you are 'convicts'. Is that clear? In short," he looked at Kogan, "I double-checked you, fortunately I have another professor," and he turned to Feldman, "he confirmed your diagnosis. So, what are we going to do? We still have about five days to drag through this taiga to the camp. Do I have time?"

"No," Natan Lvovich answered firmly, "out of the question. It is necessary to operate within the next few hours. Otherwise..., well, I told you. The consequences are quite predictable.."

"So you will operate here! Can you handle it?"

— the major interrupted, "well, I can't hear you?"

"Us!?"

— Kogan shuddered in shock and looked at Feldman, "here? This is impossible! We need an operating room, instruments, materials... It is impossible," he repeated, "impossible!"

"But is it possible for me to croak?"

— the major wheezed, "huh? Why are you quiet, professor? Zaborodko! Take them to the compartment," he ordered the lieutenant who had entered, "and get the head of the medical unit in here. Execute!"

"Well, Semyon Abramovich," Kogan said sadly, "what are we going to do? Some kind of delirium, what operation? What do you say, professor?"

"I have nothing to say," Feldman sighed and pulled his right hand out of his pocket,

"look at this." Natan Lvovich involuntarily flinched upon seeing a deformed hand missing the index and middle fingers.

"What is this? How did it happen, colleague?"

— he asked with compassion, "trauma?"

"Yes," the professor shook his head, "trauma. With a hammer. Only it wasn't my mistake. His accomplices," he said quietly, nodding towards the next compartment,

"crushed them with a hammer when I wouldn't sign a paper confessing my guilt. Knocked my teeth out at the same time, as they said, 'for lack of need'. They kept asking, 'with which fingers did I examine women on the gynecological chair' and 'in how many vaginas have these fingers been'? And then, saying that I had done all the 'poking' I would ever do, they smashed them with a hammer. Later in the prison medical unit, they amputated what was left of them. So, colleague, I'm sorry, but unfortunately I am no assistant to you. Look for another assistant."

"So, maybe this is a good opportunity to take revenge on this scoundrel, eh, Semyon Abramovich? For our ruined lives, your fingers, teeth, huh? Just him and us! There will be no witnesses. Death from peritonitis — peering into his face Kogan whispered, — and that's it!"

"You see, colleague," Feldman said, looking closely at Natan Lvovich, "at the medical faculty at the Sorbonne, where I had the honor to receive my education, they taught me to save people, to give them life, not to take it away. Therefore, even for the sake of the most just retribution, I cannot sink to their level, the level of murderers. Forgive me."

"What? You studied at the Sorbonne? Amazing! In the Sorbonne itself!"

— Kogan exclaimed admiringly, "I sincerely envy you."

"Had the imprudence," Feldman sighed sadly, "but there's nothing to envy here, colleague. Before you stands not only a 'Rootless cosmopolitan', but also a 'French spy'! And how are you here? Also a 'Murderer in a white coat' or a 'Poisoner-doctor' according to Lidia Timashuk's version?"

"I had the misfortune of writing a monograph," Natan Lvovich smirked, "the scientific supervisor of which was Professor Vovsi M.S. He is also arrested now. That was enough to become a 'Rootless cosmopolitan'. So, we are in the same boat, Professor. And as for 'retribution' against our patient, I didn't expect to hear any other answer from you, colleague. I am the same," Kogan waved his hand, "maybe that is exactly our weakness? So, I don't need any other assistant. And generally, not every surgeon is assisted by a Sorbonne graduate!"
The lieutenant entered the compartment with a guard holding a tray with plates and a kettle. The soldier silently put everything on the table in front of the prisoners and left.

"Eat," the lieutenant twisted his mouth contemptuously, "special rations from Comrade Major. Though I would have given you bitches stones instead of grub. Poisoners! In short, 10 minutes to eat and then to the chief. That's it, time is ticking," and he left. In deep plates there was hot soup, in others, pieces of meat and macaroni with gravy. Hot tea in the kettle.

"What a feast, what delicacies!"

— Kogan spread his hands, "I've almost forgotten that such food exists. Bon appétit, respected Semyon Abramovich."

"Thank you, colleague, bon appétit to you too," Feldman sighed,

"however, due to the lack of teeth, thanks to our 'valiant employees of law enforcement agencies', I have been forced to become a vegetarian. So, I will overcome the soup and macaroni, but the meat, excuse me, I will share. Moreover, you, Natan Lvovich, as the operating surgeon, need it more."

"But I don't have any medical instruments," the sergeant threw up his hands, "according to regulations, we are not supposed to have anything like that on a transport. I'm just a paramedic, and in my medical unit I only have iodine, bandages, cotton wool, pills for fever, diarrhea, and painkillers. So, Comrade Major, that's all. Nothing more is permitted."

"So!"

— Gryaznov grimaced, "do you know how to operate on appendicitis?"

"What?"

— the head of the medical unit's eyes widened, "what appendicitis? I don't know of any appendicitis."

"What appendicitis? What appendicitis?"

— the major mimicked him, "moron! And you call yourself a paramedic! What do they even teach you? Anyway, bring your bandages, cotton, well, and whatever else here. Dismissed. Zaborodko!" The lieutenant entered the compartment.

"So," the major struggled to sit down on the berth, "listen to me carefully. The train driver reported to me that in about an hour we will pass through some district center Komarovo, and he knows for sure there is a hospital there. According to our train's itinerary, no stop is scheduled at this station. But the driver said he has been driving this route for a long time and there won't be any oncoming trains for an hour and a half, so we can make a stop at the station. Therefore, lieutenant, you will have just over an hour to find the hospital in this Komarovo and confiscate the instruments for the operation from them. Take Kogan with you. He'll tell you what we need to get from them. Do you understand me?"

"What if the criminal escapes?"

— the lieutenant doubted.

"You're a criminal yourself, idiot!"

— the major grimaced, "he is a professor of medicine and doesn't know how to run. And he has nowhere to run. But, for insurance, handcuff him to yourself. That's it, drag the doctors here."

"So, do you all understand?"

— the major looked at the prisoners, "Kogan goes with the lieutenant, Feldman prepares the operating room here. See to it that in two hours everything is ready."
The lieutenant and Kogan stepped out onto the wretched platform. The severe frost was intensified by the wind. They found the hospital quickly, as it was not far from the station. They were met by a very elderly paramedic with a thick gray beard.

"I am alone here, and there are two more patients," the old man spread his hands.

"And the doctor?"

— rubbing his freezing ears, the lieutenant asked, "is there a doctor?"

"No doctor," the paramedic waved his hand, "they took the doctor. He's been sitting in jail for two years. For what, I don't know. So, I'm the only one here."

"Alright, grandpa, cut to the chase! We need various things for an operation. Tell him what," he nudged Natan Lvovich forward, "and make it quick."

"My good man!"

— taking the paramedic by the hand, Kogan said, "excuse me, what is your name?"

"They call me Timofeich," the old man introduced himself, "I am the local paramedic."

"Tell me, Timofeich," Kogan smiled, "do you have an operating room in your hospital? We need surgical instruments for an operation. Do you have any?"

"We don't have an operating room," the old man spread his hands, "but we do have some instruments. Our doctor, Semyon Grigorievich, brought them from the front, trophies. He served as a surgeon during the war. I'll bring them now."

"Exactly what is needed," Natan Lvovich said, opening a wooden box and examining the contents, "do you have syringes and novocaine?"
"Well, that is good," he nodded satisfactorily after receiving what he needed from the paramedic, "now we can operate. Sensible, however, was your doctor, foresighted."

"Why 'was'?"

— the old man shook his head, "he will return yet, he will surely return. And when he returns, he will ask me: Timofeich, where are my instruments? And what will I tell him? Say I gave them to someone? No, that won't do. I will go with you, and then take the instruments back. That's how it is. I'll go get dressed."

"Are you crazy, grandpa?"

— the lieutenant exclaimed, "we have a train with zeks. A secret object. Don't even think about it!"

"Don't try to scare me," the paramedic calmly replied, "I've been scared enough since the First World War. And I've seen more zeks than you have. For how many years they've been passing through our station, several echelons a day. So, let's go, soldier, otherwise I won't give them to you."

"Well, okay, let's go, there's no time. You can sort it out with the major yourself," the lieutenant waved his hand, and they left the hospital.
In one of the compartments, under the direction of Professor Feldman, a "field operating room" was equipped. The sleeping berths were raised, a thorough wet cleaning was done, and the walls were treated with bleach. In the middle of the compartment stood an "operating" table covered with a white sheet. In a pot taken from the food block, they boiled the instruments and, by night, everything was ready for the operation. The major was even glad of the presence of the paramedic from Komarovo, instructing him to monitor the actions of the "Enemies of the people" and if "something went wrong," to report to him immediately. Timofeich only sighed sadly and went to smoke in the vestibule.

"Citizen chief!"

— Kogan said, "we have everything ready, but Feldman and I need to wash before the operation and change clothes. You understand that our prison clothes are not very suitable for operating gowns. This is for your safety," he added, seeing the major's frowning look. The lieutenant took the surgeons to the sanitary room, where they washed with pleasure under the wretched shower, inhaling the long-forgotten smell of soap.

"Well, will these suits do?"

— the major drunkenly asked, looking gloomily at the professors standing before him in their underwear, "can you begin?"

"We are ready," Kogan answered, "but do not drink any more alcohol, citizen chief, as the anesthesia might not work and it will be painful for you."

"What?"

— the major wagged his finger, "I'll show you painful! Make sure everything is done as it should be. And that it doesn't hurt, understood? Look at me, I'll let you rot!"

"It hurts, bitches, oh it hurts," the major groaned, "give me your damn injections so it doesn't hurt. What are you doing in there? Are they pulling my guts out?"

— squeezing the hand of the standing paramedic, he whimpered, "grandpa, give me some vodka! Get the bottle from my bag, hear me, grandpa? Where is the lieutenant?"

"Everything is fine, chief, don't be afraid," Timofeich reassured him, "great masters are operating on you, you're lucky. Endure, they will finish soon, they've already removed what needed to be removed. I won't give you vodka right now," he said sternly, "later you can get drunk, after the operation. And the lieutenant is guarding in the corridor. He's not allowed in here, he's not sterile."

"Are you sterile?"

— the major moaned.

"I'm a paramedic, I'm allowed. That's it, be quiet," Timofeich frowned, "don't interfere with the doctors' work."

"Well, colleague," Natan Lvovich said satisfactorily, "we submerged the stump of the appendix into the intestine, everything is dry in the abdominal cavity, we can leave."

"Submerged what? Submerged where? I want to see what you submerged! Where are you going? How are you leaving?"

— the major yelled, "and who will sew me up? Lieutenant!"

"Don't worry, citizen chief, we mean leaving the abdominal cavity," Feldman chuckled, "don't be afraid, we'll sew you up. Timofeich, be so kind as to lead the lieutenant out of the operating room," he pointed to the guard who had burst in, "and smiling added, — he's not sterile."

"Well here, allow me to show you your 'tormentor'," taking off his mask, Kogan said, showing the major the appendix hanging on a surgical clamp, "if you want, you can put it in alcohol and keep it. And we are finished. I wish you good health." The groaning major was carried into his compartment and laid on his berth.

"Well, that's it," Kogan told the lieutenant, "now only rest. Restrict food for a day, give him fluids. Broth and cottage cheese are allowed."

"Can I pour him a little vodka?"

— the lieutenant asked, "he's asking for it very much."

"Fifty grams is allowed," Natan Lvovich permitted, "if he's asking for it very much."

"And what about us now?"

— Feldman looked at the lieutenant questioningly, "back to the squad?"

"No," the guard shook his head, "until Comrade Major feels better, you have been ordered to stay in the next compartment. You will treat him. And you, grandpa," he turned to Timofeich, "take your irons, get off the train at the next station and head back to your village. For now, sit in the vestibule and smoke your roll-up. Dismissed, to your places. You will be fed soon."

"Well, Semyon Abramovich," Kogan said when they were left alone, "we accomplished the task, congratulations. It wasn't some grand surgery, but in such conditions... We did great. What do you say?"

"Yes, colleague," Feldman answered thoughtfully, "we did great. But I feel no particular joy. Listen, respected Natan Lvovich," he continued sadly, "do you understand what kind of trap we have fallen into?"

"What do you mean?"

— Kogan did not understand, "what trap?"

"I will explain," the professor frowned and repeated, "I will explain. Tell me, what options are possible in this situation? Let's assume the patient successfully recovers and no longer needs our involvement. In a couple of days they return us to our squads and in the eyes of all the prisoners we become accomplices of the prison administration. Saved the life of the 'Pakhan' (crime boss), or whatever else they call them: 'Kum' (godfather), I think? And what the zeks do with such accomplices, you can guess? The second option - the patient, God forbid, dies. I won't even mention it, you know it yourself. Another victim of the 'Rootless cosmopolitans'! Well, and the 'Punishing Sword' for the 'Murderers in white coats' works flawlessly. The third option - postoperative complications. Quite possible, with a complete absence of asepsis and antisepsis, under which, in fact, an abdominal operation was performed. In this case, the major himself will destroy us. That's it! A trap! Forgive me for telling you this," Feldman smiled a crooked toothless smile, "but that's what I think." Natan Lvovich stared blankly out the window. Since yesterday the landscape had not changed. The same frozen trees, snow, wind.

"And what should we do?"

— he asked with dry lips, "what do you suggest?"

"Dear professor," Feldman said quietly, "I am 62 years old, I am already an old man, and an invalid too. I have no future. I see no sense or possibility in continuing my miserable existence. I will not return to the squad. Never! You decide for yourself. You are younger than me, stronger."

"Yes," Natan Lvovich shook his head, "a mirage! Fate played a cruel joke on us. Just yesterday I thought exactly like you, Semyon Abramovich. But, suddenly, our meeting, a shower with soap, a hearty meal, and these stupid but clean underpants, and, finally, the operation. Somehow, unexpectedly, life sparkled with new colors, some meaning appeared. But it turned out to be an illusion, a mirage! You brought me back to reality, dear colleague, and for that, I am grateful to you. I, too, have no doubts about the future; we have none. So, as I said before, we are in the same boat! To the end! One thing makes me glad," Kogan smiled sadly, "we will depart from an operating room, albeit improvised, but an operating room and, speaking in lofty terms, in clean underwear and with a sense of fulfilled duty."

"Forgive me, Natan Lvovich, that I destroyed your illusions," Feldman sighed, "but I had to say what was on my mind. And, if this is your conscious decision, we need to discuss, so to speak, the technical side of the matter. Unfortunately, even what we have planned will not be easy to carry out in our conditions. By the way, I want to reveal my secret. While you and the lieutenant went for the instruments in the village," he whispered, "I, on the major's orders, prepared the operating room. Being in the laundry, where I ironed sheets for disinfection, I managed to get a couple of clean sheets of paper and a stub of a pencil. So, we can write letters to our relatives. Eh?"

— he smiled for the first time, "how do you like that news? Only I will need your help," raising his mutilated hand, he said guiltily, "I can't manage on my own."

"Why, what are you talking about?"

— Feldman jumped up excitedly, "of course I will help. What a gift of fate! Only how to pass the letters outside?"

— he muttered thoughtfully, "we are 'Without the right to correspond'. How?"

"Timofeich!"

— Semyon Abramovich said quietly, "he will do it, I am sure. I understand people and am sure he is a decent man."

"I completely agree with you," Kogan said with conviction, "yes! Timofeich! And not just the letters," he continued thoughtfully, "but more on that later. Give me the paper, professor, we will write to our families." The door opened and Timofeich entered the compartment with the lieutenant.

"So," the guard said gloomily, looking at the old man, "in two hours there will be a station, you get off the train and head to your village. In the meantime," addressing everyone, "sit quietly. Soon they will bring grub," and he left.

"Dear people," the old man whispered despondently, "what have you thought up? How can it be done? This is not Christian, I cannot do it! Pity the old man, I cannot!"

"Timofeich," Feldman gently took the old man's hand, "forgive me, what is your first name?"

"Grigory," and added, bewildered, "they call me Grigory Timofeich."

"Respected Grigory Timofeich," the professor said, "please, listen to us. Understand, living in prison conditions is unbearable and impossible for us. Natan Lvovich and I simply will not survive it. You will perform a truly Christian act, as you put it, if you save two innocent souls. We beg you."

"God is your judge, dear ones," the old man crossed himself, "tell me what needs to be done. I will do everything."

"Listen to me carefully," Kogan entered the conversation, "after they bring us food..."

"God be with you," Timofeich waved his hands, "I won't take it. You yourselves are probably hungry, and you give it to me."

"Take it, take it, please," shoving bread into the paramedic's knapsack, Feldman said, "it will be useful until you get home. And we are already full anyway. Grigory Timofeich, did you understand everything? The major's tunic hangs at the entrance to the compartment, and under it is a belt with a holster. Everything, everything! Time is short. Your station is soon. And about the letters, please, don't forget about the letters!"

"How is it possible," the old man shook his head, "I will do everything, I swear to God!"

"Well, grandpa," the lieutenant was tipsy, "get ready for the exit. Pack up, your station is coming soon."

"Listen, soldier," the old man stood up, "let me say goodbye to the major. It's not every day you see a man being operated on in a train. And it wouldn't be Christian to leave without saying goodbye."

"Alright," the guard chuckled, "go on, say goodbye." The major was sleeping with his mouth open, breathing fumes. On the table stood a half-empty bottle of vodka.

"I won't wake him," the paramedic said quietly, "let him rest. But I need to check the tummy," and bending down, he pulled down the blanket.

"Well, I'll be!"

— he turned to the lieutenant, "look here, soldier."

"What's that?"

— the guard got scared seeing a bloodstain on the bandage, "where did that come from? Huh, grandpa?"

"I don't know," the old man threw up his hands, unnoticeably squeezing his bleeding finger with his hand, "call the doctor, let him say." The lieutenant dashed out into the corridor and a minute later entered with Kogan.

"Nothing terrible," after examining the bandage, Natan Lvovich said, "that's how it should be. Don't worry, everything is normal."

"You watch it," the officer wagged his finger, "you answer with your head. And you, grandpa," he turned to Timofeich, "go get your things and head out."

"Farewell citizens," Grigory Timofeich bowed, "I will remember you, our acquaintance, the operation. I will pray for you. Forgive me, if I did anything wrong."

"Come on grandpa, come on," the lieutenant pushed him in the back, "making a fuss here. Who did you decide to pray for? For the 'Rootless cosmopolitans'? Want to get a prison article? Come on, get to the vestibule."

"Farewell, Grigory Timofeich," the professors waved their hands, "thank you for your help. Thank you for everything."
Exiting the train, Timofeich immediately felt the force of the frost. Gusts of wind blew open the flaps of his sheepskin coat, his beard immediately became covered with hoarfrost. The place was completely deserted, only in the distance, through the ground blizzard, a solitary small house was visible. The old man stood silently near the train and looked into the distance. The train, having stood for another minute, suddenly jerked and started moving. The clatter of wheels and gusts of wind muffled the sound of two pops coming from the railcar.

"They have ascended, sons of Judea!"

— taking off his hat and crossing himself, Grigory Timofeich whispered, "they have freed themselves, the poor souls. Lord! Accept the souls of your sinful sons! It was not from a good life they did this. Grant them peace!" A small piece of ice, rolling out of his eye, slid down his cheek and fell into the gray beard blowing in the wind. The old man looked sadly after the departing train. The journey home took two days. He traveled on passing cars, thankfully the drivers didn't refuse the old man. Presenting a certificate issued by the major to the district council: On "Fulfillment of a special task", Timofeich returned to work. The next day he bought envelopes at the post office and, writing the addresses, sent them off. The letters did not reach the addressees, as they immediately fell into the MGB service, where an investigation was already in full swing on a scandalous case classified "Top Secret" with a complex name: "On the fact of suicide of convicts under Article 58-8 citizen Kogan N.L. and citizen Feldman S.A. on the stage of transportation to the places of serving the sentence". The major was suspended from service and, after an internal investigation, demoted, then arrested and sentenced to several years. Basically, the prosecution material was based on the testimony of the main witness - the lieutenant. Timofeich was arrested a week after his return. To all the investigator's questions, the old man answered unambiguously: I don't know! I don't remember! I'm too old! True, they didn't beat him during interrogations. And he served "not long", "only" 2.5 months. On March 5, Stalin died, and in April, "for lack of evidence," he was released. In May 1953, the "Enemies of the people" Kogan N.L. and Feldman S.A. were completely rehabilitated (posthumously).

"Hello respected citizens! This is Grigory Timofeevich Lukin writing to you, a resident of the village of Komarovo," Timofeich thought and added, "you add, granddaughter, a paramedic. You do not know me, but with your husband and father, Natan Lvovich, fate brought me together on the last day of his life...," the old man wiped away a tear and crossed himself.

"Don't cry, grandpa," his granddaughter sniffed and put down her pen, "this is the third time we're starting to write and we just can't finish. And we have another letter to write."

"We must," patting his granddaughter on the head, the old man said, "we absolutely must. Write further... Don't cry, Timofeich! Don't cry!"